World Cup Hook Up

1

Stacy Voorhees phone lit up like a Christmas tree, and the incessant beeping was driving her dad nuts. Reaching around to where his daughter's nose nearly touched the screen, he grabbed the mobile and dangled it out of reach.

"Daa-addd!" she yelled. It wasn't fair -- her father was all six-foot-five and she barely cleared five feet. To her embarrassment he began reading the comments on the thread she was on -- out loud.

"Let's see," he rumbled, and then affected a girlish voice. "The Hobbit Prince battled The King but the King telepathically made sure the ball went wide. -- LMAO, the look on Pipita's face! -- Crispy be like 'I invented him, you know? LOL' --"

Stacy edged out of the reception desk, made a running leap and snatched the phone from her dad's grasp. She cradled it like a wounded animal. "Geez. Ever heard of respecting other people's property?" Her dad's handsome blonde face glimmered with a little hurt, but she steeled herself, flopped back to her seat and hunched over her phone.

"I don't get it, Stace. I ask for you to spend the summer with me and earn a little money. You're in an island in Greece that people pay through the nose to visit -- it's everyone's idea of paradise --"

"People?" Stacy looked around the empty stone courtyard. "What people?"

"--but since you've come here you've been buried in that phone!"

Stacy hunched over and blanked the screen.

"Stace--"

"Dad, I'll just check on the kitchens. Ring the bell if you need me."

She left the courtyard, avoiding the stricken look on his face by turning towards the sea as she crossed to the kitchens. The Aegean was crystalline, a brilliant blue she had never seen anywhere else, and it managed to make her forget her resentment for a few glorious seconds. But then the distant yet distinctive sound of a soccer match (most probably from Kostas' radio on the lower terraces) cut through the glittering sight, and made her remember her annoyance.

Just as she turned, not in the direction of the kitchens but to cut through one of the terraces to reach her favorite spot, her mobile rang. It was her best friend, Christina.

"'Sup, bizzy,"

"STACE OHMAHGAH!!! STACE IT WAS AWESOME!!"

Christina was yelling, but Stacy could barely hear her over the roar of a crowded airport. Over the din she could hear chanting of Ole Ole Ole! It was a queer contrast to her serene spot: a small, hidden alcove, empty save for a couple of straw-seated chairs and a gorgeous view of the ocean, hidden from view by whitewashed stone steps, an olive tree and a mass of bougainvillea creeping down a wall.  She swallowed a lump of disappointment and sadness in her throat.

"Stace, are you crying?" Crumpled static blasted suddenly from Christina's end, and when her voice came through again it was more audible. "Come on -- it's not so bad? I bet Greece is a lot cooler than our hovel in Rio."

"Doubt it, Christina."

Life could be so funny. Her best friend, Christina, the girl who until a year ago didn't care a whit about soccer, had just witnessed her very first World Cup -- and right on the host nation's soil. 

"Anyway. Not crying," sniffed Stacy. "OK. Maybe a little."

"Awww, bizzy? You told me to call you before I flew out!"

"I know, I know." It was getting harder to get the thickness out of her voice. "I just want to make sure you were OK and that you didn't cause an international incident."

"Well, there were these two drunk Dutch fans --"

"Bizzy!" Stacy pictured Christina in some beachside bar, her flaming red hair and pale skin drawing the eyes of a couple of inebriated Oranje supporters, causing a brawl when her boyfriend Jordan had to avenge her honor. It would have been so embarrassing to witness, but also so epic.